


death dance

by psychamonix



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Late at Night, Light Angst, Nicknames, Platonic Relationships, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychamonix/pseuds/psychamonix
Summary: “There you go,” she says, like a reassurance. She’s not sure exactly who’s comforting who anymore.The dance, though- the dance is for both of them.---From the exile arc- One night, Tommy and Mamacita talk about the past.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Mamacita | Girl Dream & TommyInnit, Mamacita | Girl Dream/Mexican Dream, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 13
Kudos: 115





	death dance

**Author's Note:**

> heads up- you might want another tab with google translate. most of it is just nicknames, but there are a few phrases towards the end.
> 
> disclaimer, as with all of my t+t stories: all relationships in this story (except MD/Mamacita) are platonic. don't fucking ship minors.

The stars are bright tonight. 

It’s the only thing she lets herself think, looking up into the freckled sky. Around her are the sounds of the true night awakening; when one day tips steadily into the next and the quietest sleeping things awaken. It’s not much more than a hum, but she welcomes it in with absolute stillness, sitting cross-legged on the sand with her fingers clenched into the ground. 

She hears him behind her minutes before she speaks. They’re a little ways down the beach, far enough from his tent that this isn’t a midnight piss or a rearranging of the tent door to block out the breeze. No, this is intentional- and she can feel his exhausted reluctance in the way he hovers. 

“Hey, Tommy.” She says eventually, not bothering to turn her head. From her peripherals she sees him sink to the ground, hunching over to brace his elbows against his knees. 

He just hums in response, yawning slightly at the end, his mouth opening wide like a cat’s. She’s calm in the easy silence, the strangely familial nature of the peace. 

“Bad night?” She says softly, after a few minutes have passed. 

“Yeah,” he replies, voice a little rough. He clears his throat to fix it. “Just- you know. Dream.” 

“Dream,” she agrees, blinking a little to drive away the wetness before it can truly begin. 

A few more beats of quiet pass. She unwinds her legs, stretches her feet out straight to wiggle her toes into the sand. Tommy balances his head precariously on his hand, though his eyes are wide and clear, unblurred by somnolence. 

The stars prick into her eyes. “I miss him, you know.” 

“Dream?”

“ _Mi sueño._ ” Harsh. “Not this- this asshole.” She shoves her hands deeper into the sand, clenching her fists until the grains dig into her palms. “I miss dancing with him, more than anything. These long nights. I miss the music that he had.” 

“Mamacita,” he says. She hears the strange panic in his voice. Despite his boasts, he’s never been good with girls. 

“I miss the dancing.” She says again, like a plea. Something breaks in the words, some strange yearning spilling out into the wild sea air. 

Tommy leans further forward, fiddling with the damp, clumping ends of his hair. “You still dance all the time.” 

“It’s different with a partner,” she says bitterly. “It’s sharing something you can’t in words. An experience you can’t recreate with anything else.” 

His voice is hesitant when he makes the offer. “I could dance with you, if you want.” 

Despite herself, she laughs. “You’re a little young for me, _pequeñito._ ”

“How dare you. No me gusta.” If he had more energy, he’d probably be scowling. 

The air of the night clings to the silence, warps it. She’s not sure how long he waits to speak again. 

“I didn’t mean like that.” He says, quiet if not particularly soft. “I meant- just for fun.” 

Finally turning her head, she smiles wearily at him. He’s staring down at his own dirty feet, both shoes missing, either lost for good or put up for the night, and the corner of his mouth tilts into a frown. 

“We used to dance in L’Manberg.” It’s an admission she wasn’t expecting, spoken downwards like he wants the earth to swallow it. “Me and Tubbo and anyone who came. When we still had the disks.”

“I’m glad,” she says, when it doesn’t seem like he’ll continue. “He’ll come to visit someday, you know.”

“Someday.” He says, grimacing like it tastes unfamiliar on his tongue. 

“But until then,” she says lightly, nudging his shoulder as she stands. “I think we’re both in need of a partner.”

He looks up at her, and he’s too adult, all hard eyes and slumping shoulders. 

“Come on, _hermanito._ Get your discs.” 

She holds her hand out like he’s a child, pulling him up with little effort despite his size. He might be tall, but she’s a fighter, a dancer, and more competent in her own skin than he is in his. 

“There you go,” she says, like a reassurance. She’s not sure exactly who’s comforting who anymore. 

The dance, though- the dance is for both of them.

He puts on an echoing, chirping melody, muttering something that sounds like a name. The song feels like age, in a way that she can’t really describe. It’s like being young and old and new and tired all at once. Like walking on a carpet of stars.

“A little slow,” she says aloud, nodding at him. “But good.” She takes his hand, leaving him at half-arm’s length. “Spin.”

He makes a face at her as they sway. “Isn’t the man supposed to spin the woman?” 

“Not in my house,” she says, lifting their hands together. “Now spin.” 

“We’re not at your house, you’re at mine,” he complains, but he spins. His feet twist in the sand, kicking up a small spray. 

“See? Fun.” 

“Your turn,” he says, with that tone that doesn’t allow argument. The one that’s so stubbornly, brazenly Tommy. 

She spins, and lets herself laugh when the wind catches her hair. The sound echoes out into the night and doesn’t return, but neither of them seem to mind. 

“Here,” she says, pulling him closer, until her hand’s on his shoulder and she has to look up to see his face. “Watch my feet, come on.” 

They kick up sand as they go. He’s awkward and uncoordinated, moving with his elbows and knees rather than his hips, but it’s endearing. She’d bet he and Tubbo danced like they do everything: a whirlwind of speed and noise, shoving and shouting over each other, careless of what they were doing in favor of the sheer pleasure of doing it. Beautiful disasters. They’d probably never slow danced in the moonlight- platonic or familial or otherwise. 

To be fair, she and M.D. had rarely danced like this, either. They were quick and fast and lovely, hands everywhere, every movement flowing into the next. He wasn’t a quiet person, wasn’t introspective like she is. _No consequences_ , he’d whispered to her, that very first time they met, in the vivid darkness of the party. Because that was how he was- no consequences with drugs or girls or actions. 

No consequences when he was on his first Death or his last. No consequences when he was bleeding out in front of her. 

She chokes down the memory like it’s something solid in her throat. Halfway through turning them, Tommy glances down at her worriedly, but she shakes her head and gives him a wobbly smile.

“Where did you and Tubbo dance?” She says, before he can open his mouth and question her. 

He blows out a sigh before he answers, ruffling the unruly bangs hanging into his eyes. “By our bench, usually. Later, inside the walls.” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards and stays there. “He was so shit.” 

It sounds like an endearment. She spins him. 

“He never knew what he was doing.” Tommy says, holding his arm out for her own spin. “Used to trip over anything.” 

Ironically, the statement is followed by a stumble, his feet slipping on the loose ground. She chuckles at him, laughing harder when he glares. “He sounds like a lot of fun.” 

“You’ve met him.” Tommy says. 

“Not like you have. He’s something different to you.” She says carefully, spinning them up onto the grass. “Have you ever dipped?” 

“I’ve seen it,” he says cautiously. 

“Good. Arch your back,” she says, twisting so he can bend backwards over her knee. 

He goes down spluttering, losing his footing and landing hard on his back. “Shit!”

Almost wheezing, she folds over, gripping her knees with her hands. “You were supposed to dip!”

“I told you I’d never fucking done it before!”

“It’s an intuitive move, I thought you had it!”

“Fine. Fine, dickhead.” He shoves himself back onto his feet, wincing as one of the abrasions on his arms scrapes against the grass. “Let me try again.”

“Keep your feet still,” she coaches, guiding him towards the position. “Hold onto me.” 

He bends backwards, gripping her hand almost hard enough to hurt, and makes it up unscathed but pink in the face. 

“See!” She says triumphantly. “How was it?”

“It was okay, I guess.” He lets go partially to whip her out sideways until they’re only touching with one hand, the other spreading wide like they’re trying to hug the sky together. “I like the spin better.” 

Twisting her feet in the dirt, she shrugs, swinging their joined hands between them as she faces out across the sea. She wonders if people are dancing elsewhere, holding hands in the darkness, making light of each others’ mistakes. Somewhere out there is L’Manberg. Somewhere out there is a place with ghosts. 

“M.D. used to be able to throw me, when we first met.” She tells him, like a secret. “Before his first Death, when he was stronger.” 

“It sounds like fun,” Tommy says, dropping her hand to brush sand off of his calves. He hesitates, fingers lingering on the torn hem of his pants. “I’m on my last Death now.” 

Her heart drops. His shoulders look heavy again. “I know.” 

“It doesn’t bother me.” 

“It should.” She looks closer, assessing him. His mouth is a firm, hard line. 

Shaking his head, he turns to pull the disc from the jukebox. “Thank you for dancing with me.” She can hear the dismissal, half-hearted and beaten down as it is. 

“Anytime,” she says slowly, putting her hand on his shoulder once more. “Try to sleep, okay?” 

He looks back at her. “You have to, too.” 

“I’m going to,” she says, watching the way he gently swipes a cloth over the disc, cleaning stray sand from the grooves. The same sand is plastered to the sweat and mud of his skin, caking in the unwashed mass of his hair. He looks like a dead man walking.

“Night, then.” He says, tucking the disc into his e-chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

She dips her head in agreement, padding back across the field toward the half-built shack that she and M.D. shared. But just before she’s out of hearing distance, she looks back on a whim. 

Tommy stands silhouetted against the sky, framed by the sea and the stars behind him. His shirt hangs askew from his frame- she _swears_ he’s skinnier- and his hair is almost long enough to touch his shoulders. He is barely a child.

“Tommy,” she calls, unable to stop herself. 

He turns. 

“I can cut your hair for you, if you want. I’m pretty good at it.” She offers, biting down on her lip. Something like protectiveness swells in her chest, looking at him so small against the scale of the world. 

“Thanks, Mamacita,” he shouts back. “Maybe after Dream comes?” 

Her stomach twists at the reminder. “Sure!” She yells. 

His teeth flash in the darkness, and then he lifts the flap of his tent and is gone. 

Closing her eyes briefly, she sways forward on her feet, swearing that there’s an arm lying warm and heavy around her shoulders. “ _Por favor, mi amor, mi cielo; ayúdame con este chico._ ” 

The wind whistles in her ear, lifting her hair away from her neck. She shivers, hugging herself for the warmth, still reluctant to enter the cramped shack. It’s too empty without another body taking up half the space. “ _No sé- no sé que hacer. Te necesito._ ” The warm tears slip down her cheeks silently, and she swallows heavily to stifle them. 

“ _Por favor, mi sueño. Te amo._ ” 

\---

The next days are a fog. She’s not sick, she’s not well, but she can’t focus. Can’t bring herself to leave. Even the explosions and the yelling fade into the distance. Something screams at her to go, to get up and help him, _help him_ , _HE NEEDS YOU_ , but she just- can’t. The emptiness drags her down once more, and she can’t move from the bed.

By the time she manages it, stumbling to the door and pushing her own greasy hair behind her ears, before she can make good on that haircut- he’s gone. 

She tries not to imagine the worst, standing in the shell of his camp. Not even the ghost- not her ghost, but the other one- is there. Just the remains of his tent, the lingering debris scattered in the sand where they danced, and the pillar. 

The pillar. 

She falls to her knees and prays.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone who actually speaks spanish has corrections or tips, please leave them below! this was written with a mix of bad high school language classes and online word translators. 
> 
> thank you for reading! :)


End file.
